


When Camelot Rises.

by sir_roundglasses



Series: Camelot [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, The Matter of Britain
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Disabled Character, F/F, F/M, Gen, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Sex, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-10-25 19:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir_roundglasses/pseuds/sir_roundglasses
Summary: They always see each other at some point in each life, whether it's in passing in the street, a glimpse at the back seat of a bus, or sometimes more...Having crawled out of the soil somewhere in Wales, Mordred, bastard son of King Arthur, is now living another reincarnated life alone without having seen any of the former Camelot. Suddenly, it is rumoured that Arthur has risen again. He is collecting his knights- but for what purpose?But Mordred is irresistibly drawn back to this new kingdom, and, through an emailed invite from his brother Gawain, he sets off in hope that this time, somehow, it'll be different.





	1. The Doctor's Office (Mordred I)

**Author's Note:**

> really random, short little drabbles based around the idea that Arthur and his court are reincarnated again and again through time. the drabbles will be edited every now and then, but they're each based around key characters
> 
> here's a pinterest board if you're interested: https://uk.pinterest.com/jazhiggs/camelot-reincarnated/

It wasn’t lost on Mordred that he was wearing an Orkney Isle knit, misshapen from its previous owner and the bright colours slightly faded. The sleeves were far too long, the cuffs tracing over his knuckles, and his thumb often found the small tear in the sleeve seam, picking at it anxiously. The other arm was roughly tied up at the mid-forearm. 

His left hand was aching, thumb picking at a loose thread, with his left leg agitated also where it bounced up and down, making his muscles hum. The waiting was doing him in. He couldn’t possibly wait any longer, he- 

“Mordred?” 

He looked up, eyes scanning the room through the few dark curls that obscured his vision, and through a tuft, he saw Bevidere. He heard a small voice in the back of his mind that whispered ‘arsehole’, and he bit his tongue as not to copy. He didn’t want to push his luck, he was lucky enough as it was. 

“Mordred.” The voice was sterner this time, and Mordred obeyed, though slowly, as though the waiting room of the surgery was warm and comforting, which it was not. He avoided Bevidere’s face, conscious of those burning pale eyes that scoured his own, and was lead to a small office down the corridor. 

It was brightly lit, causing Mordred’s eyes to ache with the intensity. Bevidere pointed to a plastic chair in the corner, across from a wide office desk with paper littered over it, and a computer. Posters detailing the spine covered the walls, and Mordred’s stomach turned, a flicker of a memory, like a flash of a torch, stung his mind, with Agravain reaching through a man’s flesh, eager to touch… he blinked, and it was gone. He readjusted himself, looking back at the posters, and Bedivere was evidently still as precise as he had always been, since they all had exactly 8cm between them. Mordred was sure he hadn’t used a ruler. 

“Are you not going to speak?” Bedivere’s voice was sharp and commanding, drawing Mordred’s attention to his bearded face. A name badge sat neatly on the right hand side of his chest, reading ‘Doctor B Sladder’, and he wondered whether he was actually a doctor, or whether he had pulled some strings.  
Those that remembered had been coming to his office for months with their snippets and tales, and rumour was that he was waiting for Arthur. Mordred could not resist.  
“What shall I say?” Mordred’s voice was quiet but cracked, rough from disuse. He saw Bedivere lean forwards a little. 

“What do you want to say?” 

“Nothing. You know it all.” 

This made Bedivere smirk. 

“I do, but maybe you could tell it to me anyway?” this came out unexpectedly gentle, but he added, rougher, “You have memories.”

Mordred nodded, shifting his weight in his chair, making the plastic squeak. “Then tell me.”

But Mordred said nothing. His throat was suddenly dry and sore, and he could feel his chest tighten. He shook his head, rubbing his chest with a cold hand, deliberately avoiding Bedivere’s eyes yet again. He rubbed repeatedly over in circles, trying to focus on the feeling of heated friction between his jumper and skin.  
Where Mordred was expecting Bevidere to wait, to coldly stare, whether it was out of desire for speed or whether it was doctoral duty, he moved from behind the desk and knelt beside Mordred so they were face-to-face. It made Mordred feel small, like a child. His chest ached, remembering. 

“Does your chest still trouble you?” 

Like over 1,500 years had done anything for his anxiety. He had waited for this, for months, months and months, and yet now he couldn’t do it. He needed to detail what he remembered, to have it recorded, but the memories he had were not those of everyone else’s. So many had glorious shining memories of the Arthur of legend, but they were not those close to Arthur. He, and Gawain, and the Queen, and Lancelot, and Galahad- these were the memories that Bedivere was looking to record. To help for the next reincarnation, he’d heard whispered, to make things easier next time. 

Bedivere was twirling a pen artfully in his fingers, having it hover over a plank piece of paper. Mordred swallowed thickly, trying to wet his throat so that he could prepare himself to speak, but it was sore. 

“You’ve come for a reason, so we should get that over and done with as soon as possible. Then, you can leave. You need to tell me what you remember.” Bedivere poised the pen over the paper, ready. His gaze moved to Mordred, who had resumed his slump in the armchair, now with his arm resting in his lap.  
The first question felt like a hot stab to the chest. 

“Tell me who you are.” 

Mordred scoffed at this, but Bedivere was sincere- his eyes were hard and hollow, dull even in the bright light. For a moment, Mordred wondered what he should say, but shortly he settled on the truth. A small, sickly smile spread across his lips. 

“My name is Mordred of Orkney,” he said, “knight and bastard son of King Arthur and his sister, Morgause.”

And from there, Bedivere wrote.


	2. Soil (Mordred II)

It had been a very long time since they’d last seen each other. The email signalling a complete life upheaval had pinged one morning as Mordred bit into a banana; it was titled ‘CAMELOT.’ and the banana was put down onto the table, suddenly unappetising.

Mordred swallowed slowly, with difficulty, and opened the email. The Verdana font screamed of past university essays, and its size 16 font allowed him to squint at the screen without running to get his glasses. But the tone, oh, the tone was so his brother.

Blunt and with over-enthusiastic exclamation marks, Gawain’s voice pummelled its way back into Mordred’s life with full force. He could hear his brother’s broad accent echoing in his head whilst he silently read the letter.

 _Mordred._  
_Don’t ask me how I got your email. Bedivere is clever, thankfully! I’m not sure how this email will find you, but I hope to God that you’re at least alive! Or aware, anyway, otherwise I’m sure this email will be discarded. I know that we’re not always aligned!_  
_Arthur requests our presence. Sadly, this means Wales! I will be picking you up on the 26th May outside Shrewsbury station, around 6pm, and I’ll drive us the rest of the way! What do you look like this time?_  
_Gawain._

So, it was true. He had heard whispers, on Internet forums titled ‘I once followed a man called Arthur, anyone else?’, on sly posters in London cafes that read ‘call for camelot, 07665433976’, and less discreetly from Bedivere’s abrupt phone calls, insisting that he come to his office. He had been particularly clear, and to Mordred, very useful, detailing that he was not insane, he was not weird, he was just… reincarnated. Again.

Sometimes, it took months or even years of watery, unclear memories to prompt people back into their first selves. But Mordred had been aware of his first life as soon as his lungs gasped for air out of the shallow pit he’d crawled out of, with soil crammed under his skin and nails split from breaking apart the tough, worn grass of south Wales. He had physically ‘risen again’, as some poor sod that saw him put it. He’d quickly drenched himself in the closest pool of water he could find, realised he was naked and a forearm missing, and promptly passed out.

A sweet old lady had found him, wrapped him in blankets and got her burly daughter to drag him to her house a few miles away, scatty terrier in tow.  
Mordred had been licked awake by its rough tongue on the soles of his feet, and was given hot liquids and clean clothes, and though they were the daughters (a pair of soft tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt with Aberystwyth University written on it), he liked them, and still kept them folded under his bed. They got him onto solid foods, muttered in Welsh under their breaths about how lovely his dark, curly hair was, and patted his shoulder when he sat numbly in front of the kitchen window, barely able to speak. He could remember almost everything as sharp as the kitchen knife was in the top draw that he wanted to slit his own throat with. It was completely unbearable, every hour, the flooding of conversations and feelings and sensations he felt as his mind dived back into Camelot. Sometimes, it was even his childhood home of Orkney, with it’s treeless fields and open, empty beaches. Eventually, a few days after he had been found, he could find that making a cup of tea for the daughter and her mother had made them smile, and walking the dog around the surrounding hills made his mind clearer.

After begging the woman and her daughter not to tell anyone what they had seen of him, he thanked them, stole some food and a pocket-knife, and left in the middle of the night with his name written down on a notepad. Just in case they wanted him. They hadn’t.

Now he lived in a flat squat with drug dealers and protesters of the housing crisis, but he kept himself to himself. He used one of the greasy looking man’s laptop to learn about the period he’d crawled into (after getting a few lessons, of course). Last time he could remember, it had been 1968. He had seen the back of Gawain’s head in the street whilst Mordred had been on a bus, and that had been his life’s worth of his brother. He had thought that he’d seen a youthful Lancelot in a film, and a very old Sir Cai walking his dog… Though the fashions had changed (thank God), and the tech was completely different, Mordred found that he had somewhat caught up enough to get an email address. He used it for job alerts mostly, but after an impulsive few searches relating to his past acquaintances- he certainly couldn’t call them ‘friends’- he had found the forums. Bedivere had most likely tracked his email through one of those and handed it to Gawain.

Mordred knocked out a quick reply, having the idea that if it was impulsive and done as quickly as possible, the less anxiety he would feel, which was wrong, but at least he tried, eh?

 _Gawain._  
_I’ll definitely be there. I’ve got black hair, I’m short, and I’ll be wearing an Aberystwyth t-shirt._  
_Mordred._

 

* * *

 

Mordred’s stomach was revolting against him as he waited outside the station at Shrewsbury, small bag and little cash tucked under his arm. What he had managed to steal from the druggies meant that he could get to Shrewsbury and eat, though he struggled, and an elderly gentleman had given him the few pence he could not bring forth when he was in the queue for the tills at Tesco.

He ungracefully pushed the sandwich into his face, savouring the sharp cheese and pickle on his tongue, when he felt a heavy, bear-like hand on his shoulder. Sandwich still in mouth, he turned his head.

“Mother wouldna be impressed wi’ that eatin’. Nasty habit, shovin’ it in your gob like tha’.”

Gawain stood at a good six feet, broad, muscular, and damn well double whatever of Mordred. He felt consumed by the man’s size, towering over him, almost obliterating the sun. God, he was huge, and Mordred was suddenly very glad that they weren’t trying to hurt each other this time around. Or, he hoped. If Gawain stuck a knife between his ribs right now, he wouldn’t be surprised. Might even thank him.

Gawain had his shock of red hair this time round, and freckles, and though there were slight changes in the shape of his nose, amongst other things, his green eyes were as though Mordred was looking at him as a child again, pulling him out of a fight with Agravaine, one of their younger brothers.  
Gawain extended his other hand to clasp around Mordred’s forearm, then pull into a hug, as was their age-old greeting, but after attempting to grasp air, Gawain turned white.

“Your-“ he started, but words seemed to fail him, his mouth struggling around each syllable as his eyes scanned for Mordred’s forearm as though it would magically appear when looking at it repeatedly. Mordred’s stomach did another flip, but he took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. The druggies hadn’t probed too deeply about his personal life, and Mordred offered nothing.

In some lives, his hand and forearm were still attached to him, other times were not, serving as a reminder of his father’s desire to hack him to pieces in a field. Despite the lack of certainty about his arm each reincarnation, there was always something he had as a reminder of those Camlann fields, the day he ruined Arthur… the puncture wound on the right side of his torso, heavily scarred, that ended his life. The skin was tight and the scars uncared for, making Mordred move stiffly, and the jeans he had on were irritating it, even now.  
Mordred shook his head gently, trying to focus on Gawain and his flabbergasted mouth again. Finally, Gawain relieved his gaping mouth, and Mordred’s nerves, and shut up.

Unsure of what to say, Mordred added, “Aye, I know,” and left some silence, his eyes darted up to Gawain’s face to watch his brother’s expressions change. He was always so readable, and so entertaining. His face softened, relaxed and certainly relieved, and was replaced with a tight smile.  
“Ach, come on then, I’ve brought ma car. Better get going.”

It was a large red range rover sport, glistening in the bright sunlight. Mordred, sensing Gawain’s need for a comment of approval, nodded enthusiastically and said, “It’s huge!” before heaving himself into the passenger’s seat, slinging his bag on the backseat. It was immaculate, and Mordred was suddenly aware that he hadn’t showered this morning.

“Aye, I love her dearly.” Gawain said, and they sat the next few miles in silence.


	3. Dreams (Arthur I)

The radio was blasting at full volume in the kitchen, and Arthur’s hands were shaking as he made himself a dark cup of tea. He detested the pint of milk Lance put in every cup, so had snuck down early to make his own before he and Gwen go up out of bed. He was hoping that the loud music would rouse them downstairs, but doubted it. Some woman with the name Florence was dramatically declaring her inner pain to something that sounded like war drums- Arthur struggled with the music this time round. He could remember the swinging beat of the jazz he liked on the wireless from last time, and sorely wished he could have it back. But, you can’t have everything. And anyway, everyone else seemed to find the music bearable, so he would just have to get used to it. He grumbled, discontented, and stirred the teabag round.

He could hear the lyrics of the unbearable song now, and he stopped for a moment by the round kitchen table, and put his cup down. The back of his head ached, where a long ago scar was itching against his hairline. He rubbed at it as the lyrics swirled around the room.

 _You are the hole in my head_  
_You are the space in my bed_  
_You are the silence in between_  
_What I thought and what I said_

He was suddenly struck with a deep bitted terror in his stomach. Nostrils flaring, he sat down at the table and listened further, for a moment, struck with a strange tang in the air that reminded him of the old wizard Merlin, his magic fizzing in the air and indicating his presence.

 _I never knew daylight could be so violent_  
_A revelation in the light of day_  
_You can't choose what stays and what fades away_

It was as though the wind had been knocked out of him, and he wondered, briefly, whether Merlin was here to laugh at him again, to viciously point out his mistakes. Mistakes that haunted him all the way through his lies, namely Mordred, the damn piece of shit. His hands started to tremor more violently, and he swore to himself, feeling his gut ache. The song brought too many images to his mind: indeed, though Mordred had actually hit Arthur on the head, Arthur could not shake the idea that the lyrics, ‘you can’t choose what stays and what fades’, was aimed at him and his wretched son.

The text he’d received from Bedivere a few hours before had signalled that Mordred had finally come to his office. There was a rumour that Bedivere was the first to rise again this time, his memories flooding to him when he was about 13 years old. He’d grown, silent and sullen, into an unhappy creature until a chance (was anything chance?) meeting with Arthur and a shopping trolley. They had audibly gasped, and immediately set to seeing whether anyone else was out there. It was a desperate search at first that lead no-where, and Arthur had been thorough. The former king had spent hours with re-heated chinese food and a cheap laptop, searching and searching. That was until Bedivere, now a qualified doctor after so many years at Medical School, had an idea. He would create a forum online and post his details. His practise, a private centre nestled in some Welsh hill, was the perfect place, as no one would question the random non-locals travelling to see a private doctor.  
And no one did question it- people from Camelot came, enticed by the phone call and address Bedivere had left. He remembered some- Gaster, the King’s head servant, Sir Cai, the King’s seschenal- and eventually, Lancelot waltzed into his office, all teeth and hair. Some time later, the former Queen, the Lady Gwenhwyfar, approached, dark skin and neat clothes. They both cried. Both were sent to Arthur, who had bought a run down house 78 miles from Bedivere’s office. It prevented interference. They had been welcomed.

After six months or so, Gwen and Lance had both asked Arthur to be their partner, together. It was clear that Gwen’s love for Lancelot was as burning and fierce as had brought down Camelot, but again, like embers, her love for Arthur simmered, and it had burst this time, a poker moving the ashes. Sometimes, this had not been the case. The last time they had been together, in ’43, she had been sleeping with Lance, a young naval officer, whilst married to Arthur, who controlled air traffic. She had not been forgiven before Arthur died after his rooms were flattened in the Blitz.  
Now, Arthur, feeling younger than he ever had, had desired Gwen the moment he set eyes on her. Lance, however, was unexpected. His interest in men was weak, to say the least. He thought he remembered a brief time with a young man, some time around 1830, that had been, to his knowledge, his only desire or experience, so when Lance’s smile made his skin turn hot, and his touching of Gwen’s arms made him swallow thickly, he knew something was up. To have both reciprocate his feelings? The likeliness of it all was so small, but yet there he was, in a closed polyamorous triad. They were both now asleep, entangled together, in their huge, modified bed.

The music had not woken them, and Arthur, hands still shaking, turned the volume down, and took a gulp of his tea. The lyrics had resonated, damn them. He reached to get his phone, and replied to Bedivere.

_I am going to ask Gawain to contact Mordred. I will give him the email you gave me, and tell him to come here as soon as he can. Arthur._

He then sent another to Gawain, a quick greeting with the email for Mordred attached.

His son had been in almost every life he’d had since the day he died at Camlann. The first time was as a slave Gwen had brought from the markets in Winchester around 1012- Mordred was young, underfed, and scrawny, and though his hair and height was different, his eyes were the same, and his smile; and Arthur, in a fit of rage, had smashed Mordred’s head against the courtyard wall, and buried him in the nearest available place with no ceremony.  
Another time, his son had appeared to him as a messenger boy for the followers of King Richard III, and informed him that a boat carrying a threat to the king had arrived at the Dover shores, and they were ready for battle. His accent was gone that time, but his dark hair had returned, and Arthur dismissed him as quickly as the boy had come. He did not go to Bosworth.

Though there were many time after that, his least favourite time was when he had heard his son’s thick Orkney accent over the radio coms at some cold, god forsaken radio tower in ’43. Mordred was a pilot and was screaming his birthday, May Day, which was also the emergency call, down the comms in utter desperation, his engines alight, as he soared over a small town, near enough to cause mass loss of life.

“May day! MAY DAY! MAY DAY! RAF Abingdon, this is G9CPH, e-e-engine fire and seat e-eject button faulty, I repeat, seat eject button faulty, r-request to land, altitude unknown, one soul on board. Over.“ His voice crackled. Arthur received him. He knew his son’s voice anywhere, and burning fury raged through his chest again, just as before. His fingers twitched, leaving several long seconds before replying.

“Pilot, you must redirect. Over.”

Arthur would not help him. He crashed into a farmer’s field, missing the town, and died from suffocation of the fire that had caught in the cockpit. Arthur regretted that he didn’t drown in the sea, as he was meant to go all those years ago. Arthur was awkwardly forgiven by his commander and was sent to another station. That was the last he’d heard of his son.

Mordred was around this time, though. But Arthur had a plan this time. He would not live aimlessly like he had before, dreading the day his bastard popped up out of the ground and cursed him.

In a feverish dream, lying between Lance and Gwen, their hands entwined between his, he had seen Avalon just beyond the thick mists. The withered pair of oak trees that signalled the entrance to the otherworld had spoken to him, in Merlin’s voice, that he was welcome back there, that he should return and have peace. The blues and purples of the sky stretched out before him, and he could hear cool, running water. With all his heart, he wanted it…

  
Shaken awake by a concerned Lancelot, Arthur had repeated his dream to his partners, and they both agreed that it was most likely a sign. Lance hoped it was from one of the women- Morgan le Fey, Elaine of Garlot, Morgause of Orkney, Vivien of the Lake- he had once seen dance in honour of the old gods. His mother, Vivien, was devoted to the mother goddess, and when out of the waters of the cold lake, she moved and writhed with the other magic wielding women. Morgan, Morgause and Elaine were sisters: Morgause and Elaine sisters of Arthur, and Morgan half-sister, all sharing the same mother, Eigyr. All three’s eyes sparkled with power and connection with that around them, reverence of the magic and the old festivals, and all three had the power to send dreams to Arthur, as all had done before. However, Gwen and Arthur thought it was sent from Merlin, their court wizard that bought prophesies for Arthur to fulfil. But all agreed that it was too vivid to ignore, and had come to the idea that Avalon must be found, and they would return together.

But as soon as Arthur had made up his mind, he received another vision, this time more uncomfortable. Avalon was there in the misty distance again, but he could remember the mist this time, it’s thinness tainting the golden brown of the trees. The field in which Arthur stood, clad in wool and metal of old, was littered with his men, drenched in blood, and Mordred was in front of him. Voices of the surviving called in the distance, and just behind his son’s bent over figure, three women stood, clothed in black, arms outstretched. They would take him to Avalon, Arthur knew. He felt his mouth open and yell “Traitor!” at Mordred. From now, the dream was startlingly familiar. Mordred let out a scream like a wounded animal and moved towards him, his sword glistening with blood of the slain and raised above his head, ready, and without thinking, Arthur moved deftly and sliced through his son’s sword arm; the arm hit the mud with a dull thud, and Mordred’s screams of fury became terrified shrieks. Arthur drove towards his son with a boiling fury. He speared Mordred on his right side with Excalibur, puncturing his back and running him through, but there was a thud to Arthur’s head from Mordred’s left-handed attempt, and he felt the head drain from his chest. Their legs gave in, knees hitting the ground together. Past Mordred’s shoulders, the women slowly turned and walked away, but instead of blacking out this time, Arthur could hear their whisperings, like wind through the trees.

_Your chance was lost, Arthur Pendragon. Blood of your blood, the boy shall bring about the downfall of Camelot and of you, if he lives. But again, like you, he lives endlessly, and you shall meet him again before you return to Avalon..._

His phone pinged, and Arthur read the reply from Gawain. He agreed to find Mordred, under the condition that he was allowed to join Lance and Gwen in the house, since he rent was due and he couldn’t pay. Arthur agreed, and added, with an authoritative tone, that Arthur’s primary concern was finding Mordred as quickly as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Arthur hears on the radio is Florence + The Machine's 'No Light, No Light'.


	4. Arrival (Gawain I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Gawain and Mordred eat, become more Scottish, and a meeting is unexpected.

The guy at the petrol station was eyeing them with complete bemusement as Mordred, forearm-less and with messy hair, yelled at the top of his voice around the little shop, picking the cheapest items up and shaking them at Gawain, urging the brother with money, or at least more money than Mordred, to buy it. The rows upon rows, all affordable, seemed to catch Mordred’s interest, and he would randomly read out ingredience lists, or sometimes quietly laugh at the slogans written on the cans of fizzy drink. Irn Bru, marketed as distinctly Scottish, delighted him the most it seemed, and under his arm he placed two bottles. Gawain had a feeling that one of those bottles wasn’t actually for him.

 

“I’d like tae have it, would blide me.” Mordred said as he picked up yet another bag of crisps, Worcester sauce flavour. His accent- and Gawain’s, to his own dismay- was getting thicker the more they talked to each other, and slowly, Gawain was starting to get his dialect words back, foreign sounding on the border of Wales and England, but startling familiar on his tongue. Blide, meaning happy, was something he rarely heard.

 

“Are yer sure that yer need so much? Yer have a fair bit of food there, in yer arm.”

 

“I’m hungry.” The ‘I’m’ came out more ‘ah’m’ with every use. “Didna you say that you’ve plenty time tae catch up with me? Then, food’s the perfect thing tae bond over, brother.” Mordred’s mouth turned upwards a little, wobbly, Gawain thought, but at least an attempt to be warm. He nodded, mumbling ‘aye’, and took the food over to the counter.

 

Gawain hadn’t understood it, but every life he led, his speech would change and catch up with the current time, though sometimes he retained his Orkney accent. He remembered a life once in around the 17th century where he never left Orkney, and spoke the Orkney dialect all his life. It had changed greatly now, but he liked the roll of some of the familiar words on his tongue. It pleased him to hear Mordred sound like him again, and there was something innocent in the joy the shop gave him, so Gawain caved, and soon found himself carrying a large white bag of food out of the shop and towards his vehicle.

 

They ate in comfortable silence for a while along the gradually smaller roads, until Mordred insisted that he pulled over, pointing to the view out of the window. Gawain obliged, and got out after his brother, who was now trenching across the road and onto a field- Gawain noticed now that you could see the sea, sparkling grey and calm. About 15 minutes, and they’d be where Arthur was, somewhere called Dolgellau, a small welsh town.

 

“Isn’t it beautiful, Gawain?” Mordred’s voice was soft, almost nervous as he tried to start a conversation. “Haven’t seen such a thing this time ‘round yet.” A pause. “How far is it t-tae- y’know- the place?”

 

Gawain nodded towards the vehicle.

 

“A good hour yet. Think we should stop here for a bit and take a break. Yer got tae be prepared to see him.” There was a stiff silence. “Yer know, just for yer own sake.”

 

“Aye, then tell me about him.” Mordred’s back had straightened out, and he’d squared himself towards the sea. Defensive, certainly, though Gawain expected nothing else. Gawain reached into his pocket and gave Mordred a chocolate bar, nodding to a grassy part of the side of the road. He wanted to stretch his legs- they had been driving for several hours now, and the pain in his back and legs was overriding his desire for a warm cup of tea at Arthur’s. They moved to sit down at the side of the road, and Gawain pushed himself back onto his arms, relishing the stretching of his muscles and the fresh air. After a while, he cleared his throat.

 

“What do yer want to know, then?”

 

His brother’s face turned towards him, and Gawain noticed for the first time stress lines around Mordred’s mouth and eyes; though youthful in general appearance, the lines made creases in his pale skin, and his eyes, which Gawain remembered for their brightness, were dull. Mordred shrugged, but kept Gawain’s gaze.

 

“Hm, well, I could start with the simple stuff, if yer like?” When he received no answer, he pressed on. “Well, Arthur’s got lots of dark hair, and is pretty tall, maybe nearing forty years old, I’d say. He’s quieter than I expected, but I’ve only met him once so maybe it’s not right of me tae say, but he’s slow tae talk and slow tae move, though I’m sure if yer met him-“

 

“Others? I heard you mention Lancelot on the phone.” Mordred’s voice was almost lost to the whistle of the moving grass surrounding them, but Gawain nodded. He had always been able to hear his brother’s voice above anything, even as a child- the rush of the cold northern sea often drowned out other voices, but for those who lived by it, or in it, or breathed it in, it carried their voices. The rest of nature seemed to respond to the quiet Mordred the same way, even now. He shifted his wait and thought how to phrase his next sentence.

 

“Yeah, Lancelot is yer- I mean, Arthur’s, partner. Y’know, like, boyfriend, I suppose.” He had never been eloquent.

 

“Aye. And the Lady Gwenhwyfar?” The Welsh name of Gwen rolled off Mordred’s tongue, and Gawain was suddenly hit with a memory, as sharp and tangy as the day he got it. He could see Mordred, standing at the table in the hall at Orkney, fists screwed up and eyes flaring, hot like the sun. He had asked their mother loudly, over Gaheris and Agravaine’s moaning, when he would see the good Arthur and his lady, the foreign Gwenhwyfar, taken from West from a Roman family- she was known to be unimaginably beautiful. It was unfair that Gawain had met them all and he, the next oldest, had not- he would be returning from the small leave he received, and could possibly take Mordred with him. An older brother’s pride and swollen almost painfully in Gawain’s chest that day, despite Mordred’s hot anger and curled fists.

 

“I asked of Gwenhwyfar, Gawain?” Mordred’s voice was firmer this time, though he was now looking at the ground. Gawain mumbled and shook his head, clearing his thoughts.

 

“Well, she’s certainly still pretty, and she’s certainly still Arthur’s, if that’s what yer mean. Still hot headed too.” He let out a small chuckle, suddenly remembering something, and Mordred’s attention was caught, his eyes back on Gawain. “She was hot on me, far too quick tae ask about you, yer see. She didna take a breath between greeting me and yelling at me. Something about being suspicious that I brought yer tae them without asking. Like I’d do that! What was I going tae do, wrap you up and put yer on the back seat? It was like she didna know me, or for that matter, you, at all.”

 

“She was always a nasty cad.” Mordred’s remark was tart, and made Gawain’s mouth curl. Mordred was starting to regain his spite, if not his humour.

 

“Aye, but I wouldna be yelling about it from the rooftops, Mordred. She’s still beloved of Arthur, even if he now, y’know, has both of them.”

 

“I never put Arthur down as poly-amorous,” was Mordred’s quick reply, but the hunching of his shoulders and the turning away of his face signalled to Gawain that the conversation was done. They got up, dusted themselves off, and returned to the vehicle, ready to make the final miles to Arthur’s.

 

* * *

 

What Gawain had not expected was Arthur waiting at the doorway, light pooling onto the front path from inside, a warm beacon of hot tea and a bed.

Gawain turned off the engine and looked at his brother. Mordred’s face had turned ashen, eyes downcast to the decidedly boring floor, but his shoulders and neck looked tight, and Gawain suspected that nerves were getting to him. Knowing how irritable Mordred could be, he did not reach out to grasp his shoulder, but instead reached to the back seat and unceremoniously brought forth their bags and dumped them on Mordred’s lap.

 

“ Time tae go, little brother.” And Gawain opened his door.

 

He strode towards Arthur with as much purpose as he could muster, his feet hitting the soft ground with a squelch where it had rained several hours before. With his bags flung over one shoulder, he extended the other hand, and Arthur, with his usual and often remembered warmth and eagerness, shook his hand and smiled. Smiled, of all things. Gawain hadn’t placed him as a masochist. Which was what bringing Mordred here was, essentially, he had realised as he drove up to the house. A complete pain and misery filled experience. It had always been like that. And yet, here they were again, with Gawain dragging Mordred back to face his father.

 

He heard the door of the vehicle slam and turned to look over his shoulder. Mordred had, in that short time, appeared just a few steps behind him, bags on his back and sleeves covering his remaining hand. But Mordred was no coward, and with a swift movement he moved in front of Gawain, as close to Arthur as Gawain could almost remember. It was though Mordred desired to, God forbid, touch him. Like an unrestrained desire, Mordred’s hand itching forward and body startlingly close, small and dwarfed by Arthur’s bigger and older frame. But Arthur also stuck his hand out, and instead of shaking his son’s hand he pulled him into a hug.

Well, maybe a hug was too nice of a word, Gawain thought, and surveyed that it looked more like an awkward paused wrestle, too stiff and forced to be comforting. But it was there, and Gawain thought he understood what Arthur had intended. He wasn’t sure Mordred did, however.

 

“Mordred.” Arthur’s voice boomed as it always had, a distinct and intimidating way to carry itself across a room, pounding into every surface it met. It hit Gawain’s skin like a poorly aimed punch and it startled him- Arthur had no need for a king’s voice anymore, but there it was, in all its rallying glory. It reminded Gawain of horseback and banners and golden cups, of cheering for battles and winning, and faintly of rash decisions and fits of rage, of mud spurned up from the soil and of the despair he caused.

 

Mordred had pulled away, but Gawain was sure the voice had vibrated through him too, unsettling his feet, since he was now at arms length from the king. But his face, stony as always, searched Arthur’s face with leisure, as though some kind of enjoyment was being gaged. Slowly, Mordred’s hand-less arm reached to touch Arthur’s elbow.

 

“Father.”


End file.
